Page 11 of Fate, Interrupted

The problem is that the aisle where the automotive books are housed now has a ghost in it. A stool in the back room, which I haven’t needed to move since Wednesday, still gives the impression of being occupied by someone quite large and deliberate. I can’t stop thinking about his words: There’s nothing more interesting in my past relationships than there is in this new one.

But I’m not thinking about it.

This morning I woke up and watered my three windowsill plants. They’ve survived my care through sheer stubbornness on their part. I put on a yellow skirt. Light cotton. Good for a hot Friday. I don’t think about Silas Coulter once on the short walk from The Last Chapter to The Beanery, which I make every morning because Mia makes the most wicked cold brew in this city.

I push the door open.

Shit. He’s at the back counter.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. My pulse jumps. I hate how pleased I am to see him. I take a breath and remind myself that a man can be in a coffee shop without it meaning anything. Clement Avenue is a public street, and his being here is almost certainly coincidental.

I don’t entirely believe that.

Mia nods to me as I walk up to the counter like she’s the one person in the world who I’ve been waiting to visit with. “Coffee,” I tell her, setting my cash down. “Black. And something I’ll regret.”

She doesn’t ask for clarification. She’s already reaching for the pastry case. “You always regret it.”

“Not true. Sometimes you slip me banana bread, and then I feel virtuous. Spoilsport.”

She slides something flaky and definitely irresponsible into a paper sleeve and hands it over. I wrap both hands around the coffee and take a slow first sip, trying to look like a woman with a plan.

He’s moved closer.

I didn’t hear him move. He’s there now, close enough that the air has the same charge it had in the automotive aisle. Warm and weighted and very much undisturbed by the proximity.

“You plan your regrets ahead of time,” he says, low enough that it doesn’t carry past me.

“I like to stay organized. It saves time.”

The corner of his mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. I decide it’s an inconvenient recurring feature.

“I’ll have to try that,” he says.

“You don’t look anything like a man with regrets.” I look at him properly, without pretending I’m not doing it. The jaw. The green eyes in the morning light. The shoulders, which the gray Yale sweatshirt is not minimizing one bit. And since when is a Yale sweatshirt attractive? It’s not supposed to look like GQ-wear. I let myself look for another second before I drag my eyes back to his face. “You don’t strike me as someone who does anything without a reason.”

“Don’t you think me being here counts as a reason?”

My heart skips a beat. Okay, so there it is. I try to be bland. “I don’t know yet. Does it?”

His expression sharpens. He holds my gaze a beat longer than necessary.

Here is what I know about Silas Coulter after the other day: he is not a man who wanders. He came in having driven past dozens of times without stopping. Norwood Street is not his street. The Beanery is not his coffee shop. I have been coming here every morning for three years and I have never once seen him in it.

He was sure on Wednesday. He’s sure right now.

The only person pretending otherwise is me.

“Let me guess. You had something to take care of on this block,” I say, because I’m going to give him the opening rather than wait for him to make his own. A good offense is better than a good defense. The universe is plotting some perverse game, dangling this unusually gorgeous man in front of me. Or the alternative.

Jury’s still out.

He glances around the shop, then back at me. “Trendy coffee is on my ’to do list’ now.”

“Why pick up such a bad habit now? You look like you’re all tapped out on bad habits anyway.” I chuckle as I peer at him over the top of my brew.

He gives a knowing laugh, and the air between us changes register.

“You headed next door? To open up?”